Ghosts
by ParanoiaPoliticianDiva77
Summary: A oneshot dealing with the three main characters - Christine has married Raoul but yet Erik haunts her still.


_Author's Note: Random idea I had, and I used it for an english assessment just by changing the names, and making it more "stalkery" rather than "phantomy" :P. Read and Review, this is possibly one of my favourite things Ive ever written._

_Ghosts_

Christine jolted as she opened the envelope. The sharp letter opener fell to the floor, its handle glinting maliciously at her and she scowled, wrenching her pretty face unhappily.  
The lady gasped as a singular drop of blood flashed on the otherwise clean blade and Christine blinked, curiously peering at the letter opener.  
It was clean; not a single droplet of water or blood graced the blade.  
Picking up the letter opener, Christine placed it upon the lid of the piano forte, casting her thoughts of the blade aside, turning to the letter she had just opened.  
Christine shook as she unfolded the neat, yellowed paper, the red waxy seal and familiar writing unnerving her. Staring at the simple sentence before her, Christine whimpered.

'_I will have you'_

The childish red scrawl, the unjoined threatening letters stared at her cruelly, and Christine crushed the paper and threw it beneath the stool at the piano, attempting to escape the gaze of his words.

Later, she returned to the room, knowing the crumpled letter would be awaiting her beneath the piano. Defiantly, Christine ignored it and opened her music score, placing it upon the holder at the piano.  
Sitting at the stool, Christine flicked through the pages of music, finding several different arias she wished to practice.  
Biting her bottom lip, she decided upon Margarita's _"Jewel Song"_ from Gounod's _Faust_.  
Suddenly she stopped, turning and staring fearfully over her shoulder; Christine swore she had felt someone approaching her. But seeing nothing but her sitting room filled with light, she put the thought aside, though her nerves had risen.  
Christine stopped once more, staring at the music; she could swear the notes were speaking to her, telling her his words, of his presence. Shaking her head in confusion, Christine decided she was overreacting and trying to scare herself.  
Glancing over her shoulder, Christine shuddered as she stared at what was before her; a woman's head, on a stick, dried blood from her mouth and nose, her long red hair highly recognisable. Seeing her former rival's head, Christine shrieked and screamed.  
The head disappeared, fading as a pair of arms coiled about her body, and she knew it was _his_ arms trying to capture her.  
"Christine…my Christine…" it whispered and Christine struggled, screaming and crying now, turning to face Erik. She spat in his face, and he growled.  
Hissing like a cat, Christine tore herself from his arms, picking up the letter opener, its sharpened edge perfect to her needs.  
Plunging it into his stomach, she stabbed him over and over again until he finally disappeared, his ghostly presence finally gone.

Sitting at the piano, Christine wondered why she didn't feel as pleased as she thought she would've once this deed was carried out. He was dead now, gone and she should feel free.  
But now she felt sickened, and turning to reaffirm that Erik was gone, Christine screamed as her husband Raoul lay on the floor in a pool of blood.  
"No! No! Raoul! God!" she screamed, and then burst into laughter. She knew she was trying to scare herself once more. Turning around she laughed and giggled childishly, feeling her face become drenched in the cool sweat of relief.  
"Madame! Madame!" came a cry and she turned to see her maid Rosalie, gaping at the dead figure of Erik on the soft expensive carpet.  
"Oh Rosalie! It doesn't matter!" cried Christine happily, tossing her long blonde curls over her shoulder as the maid gaped at her "Do not worry for a slight carpet stain! The monster is dead and we should celebrate!"  
With this, Rosalie left the room as Christine laughed over the body, slightly irritated that her blue dress was somewhat stained by the monster's blood.

And suddenly she was slapped across the face and thrown to the floor.  
"Let go of me!" she screeched, clawing at the strange man's face and with satisfaction she heard his angry cursing.  
"Stupid whore!" he roared and she hit him in outrage.  
"Monsieur Raoul, can you hear me?" she heard Rosalie soothe the man upon the floor.  
"Looks like the wife's attacked Monsieur De Chagny"  
"What's happening?"  
And in all the confusion, Christine turned away, her hands cuffed, sitting once again on the piano stool, she stared at the scene. She tried to catch a look at the wounded man being carried out on a stretcher but the hectic surroundings of the room prevented her gaze.  
It was Erik she had stabbed, not Raoul...surely.  
"Christine…you can still be mine" came a whisper in her ear and Christine turned to see Erik sitting behind her on the piano. Tracing his long spindly fingers down her arm, she shuddered at the frosty chill of his skin.

Suddenly she was slapped in the face once more and Christine looked around in confusion; the chaotic sitting room had disappeared, her home was gone. She was sitting in a bland room, Gendarmes surrounding her, one mean one standing before her.  
"Why did you do it?" and she realised he was in fact Erik.  
Christine blinked curiously at this revelation. Shaking her head, she muttered her thoughts to her lap, trying to understand what had happened.  
Erik had been stabbed, by herself, that was what had happened and now he stood before her, a Gendarme interrogating her cruelly.  
"Because you chased me; I couldn't see where I was going and you chased me off the road until I crashed and burnt. And in that fire I found a knife; it was your fault Erik! Your own ridiculous fault!" she shrieked which earned her another slap.  
"Take her away"

All of a sudden she was in a carriage, rocking to and fro with the movement, the rain pattering against the windows. The constant rain dripping down the warped glass, and Christine wondered why she did not cry; alone in the world, and unsure of where she was.  
Turning from the window, Christine saw Erik sitting across from her, staring triumphantly at the woman he loved and pursued. Her stomach dropped and she felt so terribly ill that she would surely be sick across the floor.  
"Darling…" he whispered sweetly.

Closing her eyes she awoke to the surroundings of a luxurious room; surely it was his home where he had locked her. Flowers sat in vases made from Venetian glass, spun like liquid candy, the bright colours of ballerina pink and peppermint green left her eyes spinning for the soft and gentle. This colours warped her vision and a headache throbbed. Her bed beheld a lavish red velvet cover and many soft cushions, eastern fabrics and patterns intertwined with the French decadence. The dark sable tone of the curtains of Chinese silk attempted to entrap her in this bed and she pushed through their opening.  
Feeling sick, her bare feet cold on the polished timbre floors, Christine realised the monster had changed her clothes; she was dressed in a long flowing gown, in black silk, darting across her body, the long train following it. It was modern and yet divine; random intricate beading dashed across the low neckline, lace interspersed with fine silk. Her hair was pinned with black diamonds strung through it and Christine wrenched one out of her curled locks. The beast had touched her; she was not wearing a scrap of cloth that was hers and the nausea filled her.  
He had dressed her. Touched her. Taken her as his own. Dressed her as his own wife of the darkness and the night and everything the monster thrived in. Christine felt like a spindly beautiful spider in this dress as the rage bubbled and pricked at her skin.  
Christine turned to the door, pounding her hands against it, screaming for release from her divine cell.  
"Erik! Let me out! Please! I hate you! You are sick! You are a monster! I cannot love you! Ever! Let me out!" she shrieked, her hands tense, spastic, shaking as she ran them through her hair in panic.  
The stress produced droplets of sweat dotting her forehead and she screamed louder, dashing her head against the rough brick wall.  
Blood stained the mortar and brick.  
The door opened; she beheld an empty dark corridor. Christine shuddered and began to whimper in this confusion. But now these invisible hands came and pulled at her, binding her arms, and she struggled, screaming insults, spitting at the trickster Erik.  
Fighting what she couldn't see, soon it all went black.

Raoul leant on the walking cane, his hand upon his bandaged stomach. Luckily the letter opener hadn't been too sharp and he was nearly fully healed a month after the incident.  
Now staring at his wife through the window of the bland padded cell; Christine stood next to her flimsy lumpy white bed, small and with one flat pillow. She wore a white greying nightgown, soiled and her blonde hair had wisps and tufts of grey throughout it now.  
The girl stared at the bed, a expression of disgust entering her once pretty features, and then she began to look down at her nightgown; picking at it, at the simple sleeves and ordinary front. She stared at it in a revolted wonder, and she ran her hands through her limp hair. She ripped out a lock of hair and stared at it; every movement of hers in this examination of herself and her surroundings seemed so alien, animal-like.  
Head in his hands, he listened to her frightened shrieks as she wondered where she had been taken in her sleep. She was conscious to the world sporadically at the beginning of this ordeal but now; she was like some sleepwalker, someone travelling down the road in the depth of the night, unable to see where she's going. He would never have thought she'd crash like this. His wife screamed now as if she were burning alive.  
Staring at his wife, Raoul knew she didn't mean to do what she did. And as she screamed _his_ name over and over, beating the door with her fists, he felt his eyes water. She dashed her forehead against the wall, sobbing and Raoul cried out in horror as blood poured down her face; it was happening all over again, she had done this before, but this time the monster was dead and gone. And as the attendants entered, holding her down, the doctor plunged a needle into her fair arm and her eyes rolled into sleep.

Bowing his head, knowing she would never forget the man who haunted her dreams long after he was dead, Raoul brought out the letter of hers he had found on the floor of the sitting room.

Scrunched up, it was a business letter.

But Christine had screamed when confronted with it throughout her interrogation.

Limping, he left the room, tears in his eyes.

* * *


End file.
